


Corruption Noir

by DictionaryWrites (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/F, M/M, Spanking, Suit Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in 1920s America. Sam doesn't want to be a cop, despite his dad's wishes, and he ends up stumbling into the life of a man named Crowley McLeod. He joins the mob, and finds himself more fascinated by the new work than he has been by than anything else in his life.</p><p>This was started for SRS 2013's Main Round One, and has been continued into a longer fic. You can find our submission, a selection from this fic and including a beautiful GIFset by mooseleys, in the inspirations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corruption Noir

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Our SRS MR1 Submission](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/31041) by Me and Mooseleys. 



Sam gave a soft groan as he pulled himself out of bed, moving to pull on clothes. He rubbed his eye half-heartedly with the heel of his palm once he was dressed, stumbling out of his bedroom to go brush his teeth. “Sammy, you up?” The voice echoed up the stairs, and Sam closed his eyes for a minute as he leaned on the sink. “Sammy?”

 

“Yeah, Dean, I’m up!” He called back after spitting his toothpaste out, running the tap and washing away the white bubbles.

 

“C’mon, Sam, we gotta be at the precinct!” The precinct. Every day, the precinct.

 

“Nah, Dean, go without me! I’ll spend the day at Bobby’s, I have some law theory I wanted to look up.” Sam couldn’t hear the roll of Dean’s eyes, of course he couldn’t, but the pause was just the right length, and he knew exactly what his brother looked like when he did that.

 

“Fine!” Came the responding retort, and a few minutes later, Sam heard the door slam as Dean left the house. Dad would have gone in early, a few hours before the both of them got up. John Winchester, Chief of Police. Dean Winchester, the best cop on the beat. Sam stared at his reflection in the mirror, wondering if the bitterness on his face was too much. Next year, it was his turn.

 

Ugh.

 

Sam pulled on a sweater and moved downstairs, picking bacon from the fridge and frying it, setting about grilling toast. They didn’t have a toaster. Sam knew for a fact that all the other cops in the city had a pop-up toaster, but, of course, they were banned from buying one. Dad insisted they were lazy, lazy and pathetic. Sam snorted to himself. Just like Sam, in Dad’s mind.

 

1926, and they couldn’t have a fucking toaster. Sam dropped heavily into the chair at the table, eating breakfast with a scowl on his face, glancing around the kitchen. His frown faltered as he looked at the photograph of his mother on the wall. Mary Winchester had been murdered 20 years ago, when Sam was just a kid, by some criminal when Dad was still a regular officer.

 

Sam looked down, eating quietly, with less gusto. It was no wonder Dad was so fervent about them all being cops. He wanted revenge, wanted to take down the bastard that killed Mom. All the same, it just… It wasn’t for Sam. He’d never really wanted to be a cop, never wanted to take up the career. Sam’s lip twitched as he stood, setting about washing his plate and putting it away.

 

Dean had done his dishes and Dad’s. Dad never did chores, but Dean did, and Sam did what he could. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing at himself in the mirror in the hallway before picking up his wallet and heading out of the house.

 

Bobby and Rufus’ shop wasn’t too far away, only a twenty minute walk, and the day was sunny, the light warm on Sam’s skin. He knocked on the door, and Rufus just raised his eyebrows at the boy as he opened it to let him in. After a pause, he grumbled, “You’re too tall, kid.” And stepped back to let Sam in.

 

Rufus didn’t leave the house much, if he could manage it. Some people would spit at him in the street, and Sam’s father especially liked to give Rufus a hard time. “Morning, sir.”

 

“You call me sir again, I’ll smack you upside the head.” Rufus said, pushing the door closed and leading Sam into the kitchen. They went through this routine every time Sam came in the morning, and every time Rufus got a little closer to grinning at it. “Bobby! Your boy’s here!” Sam had known Bobby and Rufus since he’d been a very young child. Bobby had lived in the country before, a while away from the city, but when his wife had died he’d moved closer to Dad, who’d been a good friend of his.

 

Bobby had been like an uncle to Dean and Sam, even though Dad disliked the fact that Rufus and Bobby shared their house. They ran a pretty successful mechanic’s, mostly keeping to themselves, working on cars, and sporadically going out for groceries and supplies.

 

“Morning, Sam. You eaten?” Bobby was frying sausages in a pan on the hob, and Sam nodded as he settled at their kitchen table. “Good kid.” Rufus moved forwards, and as he speared a sausage on a fork, he rested his hand on Bobby’s lower back to lean over. Sam pretended not to notice, but he always noticed.

 

He’d never mention it, not to Rufus or Bobby, not to Dean, and definitely not to Dad, but he’d suspected for a good few years that Bobby and Rufus were more than widowers who shared a house. The two were well-off compared to most people, comfortable where they were living, safe, pretty much happy. It was really none of Sam’s business.

 

“You gonna keep doing this once you join the force?” Bobby drank from a bottle as he spoke, and Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He and Rufus shared a look, and Sam heard Rufus mutter to himself about John-fuckin’-Winchester as he moved out of the kitchen and over to the workshop.

 

Bobby watched Sam for a moment, and sighed. “Y’know, boy, we haven’t got enough work to hire, and if you can get a spot on the force you’ll be set-”

 

“Yeah, I know, Bobby, I know.” Sam murmured in a small voice, worrying his lip under his teeth.

 

"Yeah, kid." Bobby gave another small sigh, tired. "I know you know." Sam stared at the wood of their kitchen table.

 

"D'ya wanna help with the cars, or...?" Sam had never understood how Bobby had so many books. He had hundreds of them on the walls, mostly in English, but others were in Greek, Hebrew, Japanese, French, Arabic and German. Sam couldn't even fathom speaking so many languages, but Rufus and Bobby were both fluent in four or five each.

 

If Sam mentioned it, Bobby just shrugged off the question by saying he got bored. Sam, for the sake of asking though, knew some French well enough, as well as words of Hebrew Rufus had carefully advised he never repeat around his father.

 

"Can I read?"

 

"Sure, kid." Bobby gestured vaguely to his library (it was really a living room, but they kept their radio in the workshop, and the shelves were full to the brim with books), and Sam moved in there to settle and read.

 

In order to have told Dean the truth that morning, he read through a text on American law before starting anything more interesting - Sam had always hated lying to Dean.

 

He ate lunch with Bobby and Rufus, and the men made Sam laugh as they talked animatedly about the two customers they'd had that morning. He walked home that day with a smile on his face. He glanced at a few posters on the wall as he moved, posters for new movies in town, and political posters.

 

Sam stopped, examining the two he saw. Naomi Whitman, the Democrat, and Dick Roman, the Republican. Despite always voting Republican, Dad insisted there was something off about Roman’s way of doing things, and that he didn’t exactly trust the politician. Not that Dad would ever vote for a woman, of course - John Winchester thought that women shouldn’t even have the right to vote, let alone run for office themselves.

 

He continued his walk home, swinging his arms restlessly. When he entered the kitchen, Dean was just crouching to pick a bake from the oven, and Sam offered him a smile. Dean just rolled his eyes and turned away.

 

“Sam?” Dad’s voice came in from the living room, and Sam answered, “Yes, sir.”

 

Dad was scowling as he entered the room, and Sam shifted slightly on his feet. “Where were you today?”

 

“Rufus and Bobby’s, sir.” John made a sharp tutting sound, turning away from his younger son.

 

“Are you ever going to just grow up, Sam? You’re going to be a cop. You shouldn’t be wasting your time-”

 

“I’m not wasting my time! I know the laws of this place inside out, I know where the lines are drawn, I kn-”

 

“I decide where the lines are drawn, Sam.” Sam stopped short, turning his head away and looking down at the floor so he didn’t have to meet his father’s eyes. “Your mother would be-”

 

“No! Don’t you dare bring Mom into this!” Sam found himself yelling, glaring at his father. “You don’t get to use her to win arguments, Dad, she’s dead, and it was your job that killed her!” John was silent for a minute, fuming, and then he clenched his fists.

 

“Go to your room and stay there.”

 

“No.” Sam turned, picking his jacket up off the side of the dining chair he’d laid it over, and walked back to the front door, wasting no time in walking out of the house.

 

“Sam!”

 

“Sammy, you can’t-” John pushed Dean back, not letting him follow his brother into the street.

 

"Let him go - he doesn't want to be here."

 

Sam stormed down the street, fists clenched. His wallet was in his back pocket, at least, and he had a few bills, so he wasn't completely screwed. He wandered down the streets aimlessly, not really paying attention to where he was going or what streets he was walking down - all he cared about was getting as far away from his father as possible.

 

He stopped short on the corner of one street, looking around. He didn't really recognize this part of town - except, except... He looked at one door. It was plain brown, with no knob or handle on its outside, and with a letterbox-slit in its middle. He'd seen a picture of this particular door, or at least, a door very much like it, before.

 

Speakeasies had passwords and special knocks most of the time, just because they were illegal, despite the fact that most of the laws weren't strictly enforced. Well, they weren't before, anyway - now that John Winchester was the Chief Of Police, whips had started cracking down.

 

Sam knew the knock for this door, and he stepped forwards. The man who let him in was tall, and he grinned at Sam, and Sam, with some caution, smiled back. The place was busy, and he could hear jazz music from a makeshift stage to the side of the room, the floor full of people dancing together.

 

He moved to sit at the bar, looking at the multitude of bottles lined up across the wall, brightly coloured and in different sorts of glass. Near-beers, he recognized - Bobby had a few bottles on the side at home at any time, and he said they tasted pretty much as beer had before the Prohibition, despite being non-alcoholic. Sam had tried one once, and liked the taste of it well enough, so now he put his hand up and called the barman over.

 

The barman was a brightly grinning little man, his eyes gold, his hair slicked back. He wore a simple enough suit, the tie bright green, and he was cheerful as he spoke. "Well, hey there, kiddo, what can I do ya for?" He smirked at Sam and waggled his eyebrows, and Sam gave a little chuckle despite himself, and his nerves for being here.

 

"Uh, could I get a near-beer, please?"

 

"Ah, going teetotal, eh?" The barman grabbed the bottle from the side, taking Sam's coin and then leaning on the side to fix him with an amused gaze. "What's your name, sonny? I'm Gabriel - haven't seen ya around here before."

 

"I haven't come here before, actually. Uh, I'm Sam." He said softly, removing the cap on the bottle and taking a small swig. He momentarily worried that Gabriel wouldn't be able to hear him over the music and laughter from the dancefloor, but Gabriel seemed to hear him just fine.

 

"Sam, huh? Pretty name, pretty boy!" Gabriel had walked away before Sam could express some surprise at the compliment and the enthusiasm with which it was delivered, staring at his bottle in some confliction. He should not have been in here, let alone letting the barman flirt with him.

 

"Hi there." Sam turned and faced a smirking woman, who had perched on the seat next to him. "Sam, was it?" He swallowed, a little nervous.

 

"Uh huh, that's right."

 

"I'm Ruby." Ruby was smirking too, but she seemed more intent than Gabriel had been, her eyes scanning Sam's body in a way that made him think of the one or two girls he'd gone steady with before.

 

"Nice to meet you." Sam said as casually as he could manage, taking another sip of his drink.

 

"You're a very handsome kid." Ruby leaned forwards, and the cut of her dress revealed cleavage, and Sam swallowed again, just a little harder than before.

 

"Thanks. You're a pretty lady." Ruby grinned, leaning forwards and splaying her fingers over Sam's thigh as she laid her hand on his leg.

 

"Thanks, yourself. Now, could I ask you a favour?"

 

"Favour?" Ruby leaned forwards even further, and Sam's eyes were a little wide as he met her eyes, her mouth close to his, close enough that he could feel the tickle of her breath on his lips.

 

"My boss would really like to meet you." She purred, and Sam's mouth was dry as she seemed to lean forwards by the tiniest of fractions, and yet everything felt ten times hotter for it.

 

"Okay." Sam agreed without really thinking, and she grabbed him by the hand before leading him away. Sam looked back, and Gabriel gave him a wink and a wave of clever fingers, holding up the beer before setting it behind the bar for safe keeping, as he was led out of the room. Ruby took Sam through a backdoor and then up the stairs, showing him into an office.

 

Sam's blood went cold as he recognized the man leaning against the desk, and his knees quivered slightly as he stared, wide-eyed and breathing more than a little faster than he had been a few minutes before.

 

"Well, if it isn't Sam Winchester. What's a pretty little thing like you doing so far from home?" Lucifer stepped forwards, and Sam felt Ruby's hand drop from his own as she moved away, dropping down to lie across a couch Lucifer kept to the side of the room. There were three big bosses in their area, and Lucifer was the most intimidating, Sam knew that.

 

He'd heard too many tales of men full of bullets, found torn apart as if by dogs (they called them the Hellhounds), windows smashed, shops destroyed, and if John Winchester was to be believed, it was Lucifer's fault Mom had died.

 

"I- I- I just-" The blood had drained out of Sam's face, and he felt light-headed as he swayed slightly on his feet, face pale. Lucifer had dirty blond hair, pink lips, and the iciest of blue eyes. He wore a white suit with cream coloured shoes, and as Sam looked he noticed a spot of red on the toe of one. He gave a choked little sound, words unable to exit his mouth in any sort of dignified fashion.

 

He was going to die. Shit, fuck, fuck, he was going to die.

 

"You just decided to go for a little wander and come into my territory?" Sam backed away as Lucifer stepped forwards, until Lucifer had him backed against the second desk in the room, and Lucifer had put his hands either side of Sam's hips so that he was forced to remain in place, leaning slightly away from Lucifer's face. "What would Daddy say?" Lucifer purred. The smirk disappeared, and all that remained on the boss' face was a curled lip, an expression that was almost a snarl. "Or did Daddy send you?"

 

"He didn't send me, he didn't send me, I just- I-" Sam's hands were shaking, his heart pounding fast in his chest, and he went for honesty out of whatever half-assed lie he could craft in the moment. "We argued. I ran out of the house, and I didn't know where I was and I knew the door and I knew the knock so I t-tried and they let me in and I just bought a beer and-" The words tumbled out of Sam's mouth with a frenzied tone, and shit, he was going to die anyway, and Lucifer was going to shoot him full of bullets.

 

Lucifer stared at him, eyes scanning Sam's face. Lucifer's eyes were gorgeous, intoxicatingly beautiful, but they were terrifying all the same.

 

"I know what that's like." Lucifer said finally, and with that he drew away to lean on the other desk, crossing his arms as he watched Sam. All the blood seemed to disappear from Sam's body, and he nearly fell on the ground as he slumped in relief. Sam took in a desperate little breath. "But, boy, you're really gonna have to make up for this sort of... Trespass."

 

Sam stared at Lucifer, and Lucifer gave a predatory little smile. The door slammed open, and Sam jolted as he looked to the entrance, as did Lucifer, whose smirk became a snarl.

 

“Who let him in?” Ruby ran from the room, and the man just grinned. He was a good deal shorter than Lucifer, in a black suit with a bright red tie at his neck. He removed his hat, revealing dark hair that was receding a little.

 

“Why, no one let me in. I go where I please.” The smaller man purred. He was a Brit: Sam wasn't that familiar with the accent from real people, but he recognized it well enough from shows on the radio. A woman stepped forwards, her hair bright red and left loosely hanging around her shoulders over her suit.

 

“Anna!?” She raised her eyebrows at him before leaning and murmuring something in littler man’s ear. He glanced at Sam, seeming amused.

 

“I just wanted to give you this, darling.” The man held out an envelope, and Lucifer snatched it from him. He glared at the contents before snapping, “Get out, then.” And Anna moved forwards, grabbing Sam by the shoulder and pulling him with them. He was silent as Anna and the short guy led them out into the street and down the road, into another building and up into an office.

 

All the same, he kept glancing at Anna. Anna was another cop on the police force, a little older than Dean. It had been Chuck, who’d been the police chief before Dad, who’d allowed women on the force, and despite Dad’s irritation, he couldn’t take them all off the force without being understaffed. She’d dated Dean a little bit too, but they’d broken up and she’d refused his attempts to retry.

 

Sam had never even considered that Anna could be a bent cop.

 

“What the fuck were you doing in there? D’you know who that was?” She growled at him as soon as they entered the office and closed the door behind them, pushing Sam hard in the chest. “You shouldn’t be in this part of town, you’re only a kid, and the son of the Police Chief at that.”

 

“I’m twenty one.” Sam muttered, turning away as Anna rolled her eyes.

 

“Oh, this is Sam Winchester?” The man asked, and Anna gave a curt nod.

 

“Sam, this is Crowley McLeod.” Anna said, and for the second time that night, the blood drained from Sam’s face.

 

"Th-that's you?" Crowley grinned. Crowley was a new player to the game, but so far there were thirty or so bodies being attributed to his handiwork, and he apparently had the best interrogator around - that is, the most vicious one. Despite his notoriety, no one yet had a photograph of the man, and he certainly wasn't illustrated in the precinct. Sam had a vague thought of a phrase Bobby liked to use - out of the frying pan and into the fire - and he shifted nervously from foot to foot, looking to Anna.

 

"Why are you out?" Anna asked, curling her lip.

 

"I got in a fight with Dad about- um, about the cop thing, mostly." Sam mumbled, looking down and not meeting Anna's eyes nor Crowley's.  "Are you going to kill me?"

 

"We're going to have to." Anna muttered, and Sam shook, but Crowley held up a hand.

 

"Oh, no, no, no, it would be a shame to do something so nasty to such a pretty face." He purred, stepping forwards, and Sam felt his stomach lurch in a mix of fear and definite interest as Crowley grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down to his own level. Sam could smell expensive cologne, the scent sweet, and he couldn't help but take in a deep inhalation of the stuff. "No, we could use you."

 

"Crowley, he's a kid."

 

"A useful kid." Crowley pulled Sam down, catching his lips in a kiss, and Sam whimpered against his mouth, feeling the black stubble on his own clean-shaven cheeks, and he pressed into it more than a little eagerly, off-setting Crowley's hat. Crowley drew back, triumphant as he regarded Sam's reddened lips and flushed cheeks. "A bent one, too." Crowley winked at Anna, and she rolled her eyes.

 

"I'm not- I'm-"

 

"Oh, hush, darling." Crowley patted his cheek before stepping back. "I don't care. Now, moving on, what can the little bastard do?" Crowley furrowed his brow, before correcting himself, "Well, not little, perhaps."

 

"He doesn't want to be a cop. He reads a lot, speaks French, likes to read. His arithmetics are pretty great." Crowley looked to Sam, interested.

 

"French, eh?"

 

"A little, sir."

 

"And Hebrew."

 

Sam's eyes widened and he stared at Anna. She just raised her eyebrows at him.

 

"You read the signs around the synagogue, kid, it's pretty obvious."

 

Crowley looked a little impressed, nodding slowly. "Work for me then." Crowley purred. "Do some paperwork, translate some documents, and perhaps pretty up a few of my establishments with that lovely little face." Crowley had his thumbs tucked into his blazer pockets, watching the Winchester for a reaction. "I mean, boy, if you don't pick that one, the other choice is we shoot you full of bullets and drop you in the river."

 

Sam choked on air. Anna shook her head. "We'll just have to kill him now, both boys are whipped by their father, he'll-"

 

"Not both." Sam said, glaring at Anna and making her look at him with just a little surprise. "I'll do it." Crowley grinned at Anna, who looked suspicious to say the least. "I- I don't want to kill anyone. And I want pay."

 

"Oh, of course you'll be paid, sweetling. Anna, leave us be. I'll need you to escort the boy home, though." Anna shook her head as she left, and Sam heard her steps echo as she moved down the stairs. Crowley now looked to Sam. "Stand up straight." Sam did, and Crowley moved around him, examining him in with what seemed like complete fascination. "And you're the son of the police chief?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Yes, sir." Sam swallowed hard.

 

"Sir." Crowley moved to sit behind his desk, removing his hat and dropping his hat on the side before settling at his desk. Sam lifted his hand slowly to his lips, rubbing over them in a little, interested motion.

 

"You never kissed a man before?"

 

"N-no. Sir." The word was added with a rapid frenzy once Sam remembered after a second or two, and Crowley chuckled.

 

"It's a test, of sorts. To see how you react. Most men don't react like you do. Just men, or women too?"

 

"I like women." Sam said in a soft, small voice. Crowley grinned at him.

 

"Me too. Now, if you'll come and sit in front of me..." Crowley vaguely indicated some of the seats in front of his desk before ducking down, rummaging through drawers. Sam moved slowly, dropping into one of the seats and ducking his head down. Crowley produced a notebook and a pen, and Sam watched him.

 

"You said you fought with your father. Why?"

 

"I don't want to tal-"

 

"I don't care if you don't want to talk about it, moose, you will."

 

"Moose?" Sam repeated, but Crowley just raised his eyebrows at him, expression expectant. "'Cause I went to my Uncle Bobby's mechanic's instead of the precinct today." Crowley tilted his head.

 

"Bobby Singer?"

 

"Yeah." Sam's eyes widened after a moment. "Please, don't hurt hi-" Crowley held up a hand for him to stop, and Sam's mouth closed again with an audible click.

 

"I know Bobby Singer - I'm not going to hurt him. Just keep talking, and answer my questions if I prompt you. Understand?"

 

"I- I went to Bobby and Rufus', and not to the precinct. When I got home, Dad was pissed."

 

"He wants you to be a member of the police force?"

 

"Yes." Crowley stared at him, and Sam swallowed, shifting in his seat uncomfortably under Crowley's gaze.

 

"Sir." The boss prompted finally, and Sam jolted.

 

"Sir! Sir, I'm sorry, sorry, I just-"

 

"And you don't want to be a copper, I take it?" Sam bit hard on his lip, worrying the skin there for a moment.

 

"No, I don't- I've seen my dad and Anna and Dean and the others on the beat, and I don't want to."

 

"You want to be a mechanic, then?"

 

"Bobby and Rufus aren't hiring, and even if they were, no." Crowley crossed his arms, watching Sam with an amused, interested look.

 

"Then whatever do you want to do? Leech off your father?"

 

"No, no, I just want to- to-" Sam trailed off. "I don't know." He mumbled finally. He was nervous, and he didn't understand why Crowley was questioning him like this. "I just want to be able to do something with writing, not, not a hands-on job."

 

"With muscle like that?" Crowley asked, looking skeptical.

 

"I-" Sam shifted, hunching his shoulders slightly in a fit of no confidence. "Dad makes us train." He mumbled softly.

 

"We work through contracts here. There's a lot of paperwork, and a lot of fiddling with numbers, and a lot of translation when documents I definitely shouldn't have come my way." Sam gave a slow little nod. "I have an accountancy office here in this part of the city. You can claim employment there. Pay will be at the end of every week. Anna will escort you home every night-"

 

"I can walk home on my own." Sam offered.

 

"You will not." Sam shocked backwards a little at the older man’s tone, shocked. "Lucifer or Michael would both adore to get their hands on you. Do you understand that?" Crowley regarded Sam sternly. "Anna will walk you home each day, and that is not negotiable. Her patrol is meant to come around this area at that time anyway, and she can insist she's picking you up as she goes. Now, as I was saying, you can claim employment there, and walk from there to here."

 

"Dad won't like it."

 

"He doesn't like you anyway, from what I've heard." Sam looked at his knees, not meeting Crowley's eyes. His heart was still beating fast in his chest, and his breathing was at twice the speed it usually was. He was getting a job. A very illegal job. He was going to be able to work, get paid, not have to work as a cop. "You'll have Thursdays off, but I want you with me for the first half of every Thursday."

 

"What for?" Crowley affixed him with a look. Sam wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but it made something in his stomach coil, and he felt his mouth go dry.

 

"To sit and look pretty." Crowley said, and Sam blinked before the boss rolled his eyes. "I want you in the speakeasy with me. You need to learn how the places work." Sam gave a tiny nod.

 

"Yes, sir." Crowley nodded to himself, writing fluidly in the notebook in front of him, a quick, flowing script of shining black ink. Sam sat in the silence, feeling unsure. "Are-" He cut himself off, and Crowley looked up at him.

 

"Are what?"

 

"Are you going to kiss me again?" Crowley tilted his head, watching Sam with another expression the younger man couldn't really decipher. "Not- not that I want you to, I mean-"

 

"Don't lie to me, Sam: I don't like that." Crowley said curtly, and Sam shut himself up. "And we could perhaps set up a system of appropriate reward."

 

"Appropriate reward?"

 

"Quite. Anna's waiting for you downstairs. Nine o'clock sharp tomorrow morning, she'll be at your home to escort you here. She'll also point out the accountancy office to you and introduce you to the workers there, so they'll know who you are if prompted. Do you understand?"

 

"Yes, sir, I understand." Crowley smiled at him, and there was something indulgent and amused in the expression.

 

"You can drop the "sir" - only the underlings call me that. Get out, and go to Anna." Sam hovered, unsure whether to go or not, and Crowley looked up at him. “Go on, then, boy, out.” Sam did a skipping sort of run out of the office, closing the door behind him, and he moved downstairs. Anna was waiting, slumped casually, in one of the office chairs.

 

“You’re an idiot.” was her greeting, and all he could offer her in response was a small, sheepish smile.

 

“Got a job. Apparently you have to escort me around.”

 

“Sounds about right. Crowley likes you - can’t have you wandering off.” Sam stared at her.

 

“Oh. Right, yeah.”

 

“You thought he just wanted you protected?” Anna asked, watching him with an amused, slightly smug expression. Sam adjusted his stance, embarrassed. “Come on, kid, let’s get you home."

 

Sam moved with her out into the street, walking in silence. "Why wouldn't they hurt you?"

 

"'Cause I'm a cop, and if I go missing, much more questions are asked. The boys around here are clever enough to keep to killing civilians." Sam nodded carefully, and then he went quiet again, not wanting to make Anna annoyed with him. They moved quickly enough, and Sam paid attention to the route they were taking, as he hadn't noticed which way he'd really walked on his way there.

 

Anna knocked on his door, and she ushered Sam in as Dad opened it. "He was down by the canal, sir, I brought him back." Sam ducked his head as he made his way past his father, heading to his bedroom rather than sticking around for whatever lecture Dad wanted to give him. He got into bed almost immediately, pulling the covers over his head and pressing his head against the pillow, suddenly exhausted.

 

He heard Anna and Dad talking for some time, and he heard Anna say he'd mentioned finding work in an accountant's office on the other side of town.  At some point, the door opened, light streaming into the room, but Sam remained still, and after a few moments Dad closed the door again.

 

He got up early the next morning, before Dad even, and pulled on a pair of trousers and a blue shirt, picking out one of his ties. He moved out of the house and carefully closed the door behind him - he skipped breakfast for the sake of hurry and walked briskly to Bobby and Rufus' place. It was seven o'clock now and he knew Rufus and Bobby would be up, and he'd just head back to his own place at nine.

 

"You're early." Rufus grunted, but he stepped back and let Sam in. Bobby was half-sprawled on the table, squinting through the glass of his spectacles at the book in front of him. Sam recognized the graceful text as Hebrew, but Bobby closed the book when Sam came in through the door.

 

"What're you doing here? Or up?"

 

"I didn't think you could manage to be up before ten, kid." Rufus teased, poking Sam in the side and making him chuckle a little. Rufus moved over to the hob and set about frying eggs and putting bread in the toaster, and Sam was slow as he settled at the table.

 

"You're dressed smart." Bobby commented, raising an eyebrow at the boy.

 

"I got a job." Bobby and Rufus both turned to look at him, both looking surprised.

 

"Where?"

 

"An accountancy office on the other side of town." Sam said softly. "Applied yesterday and they hired me for today." Bobby laughed a little, sharing a bemused look with Rufus.

 

"Well, well done, kid." Bobby praised, and Rufus nodded agreeably, both of them looking proud of him. They ate together, settled at the table, and it was mostly in comfortable silence.

 

"Uh, Bobby?" Bobby looked up, expectantly waiting for Sam's question. "Do you know a man called Crowley?" Bobby furrowed his brow, sharing a concerned look with Rufus.

 

"I know him. Bought this property off him. Why?"

 

"Just wondering. Heard his name around the precinct." Bobby raised his eyebrows.

 

"And you thought I would know him?" Rufus snorted behind him, and Bobby turned and whacked his backside with his book, and Rufus guffawed, grabbing Bobby’s hand, removing the book and then pulling Bobby’s hand up to his chest.

 

“Criminal.” He purred, and Bobby made a “pssh” sound at him before yanking his hand back, but Sam could see Bobby’s lips twitch from trying not to smile. Something in the back of Sam’s mind warmed to seeing that affection.

 

“Yeah, that’s me. Criminal.” Bobby repeated, amused.

 

“Sorry, Bobby, I didn’t mean it like that.” Sam mumbled, and he wondered where the property had come from.

 

“I’d be careful mentioning the man’s name, Sam.” Bobby said lightly. “Just be careful, eh?” Sam nodded, and with that, he made his way back home. Anna was waiting for him on the kerb, and she raised her eyebrows at the man when he moved into view.

 

“Where were you?”

 

“Just at Rufus and Bobby’s. I didn’t want to be in the house when Dad got up.” Anna let out a “hmph” of sound, and then indicated for Sam to follow her down the street. Anna walked briskly, and despite Sam’s much longer legs, he had to make an effort to keep up. Anna led him into town and up to a tall building.

 

She led him straight past the front desk, ignoring the man seated there, and up a set of stairs into an office full of working men in suits a Hell of a lot nicer looking than Sam’s outfit.

 

“This is Sam Winchester.” There were ten or so men in the room at their own desks, and they all turned to look at him. “If anyone asks, he works in that office-” Anna pointed to a door at the head of the room. “And supervises you. Boss’ orders: no objections. Everyone clear?”

 

There was a chorus of “Yes, Ma’am”s, and then Anna led Sam out again, introducing him in the same blunt fashion to the man seated at the front desk, and then brought him out into the sun again before heading down the street. She indicated for him to follow her into an alley and in through a back door, into a speakeasy. Anna ignored the inhabitants and just brought Sam up a flight of stairs and into an office.

 

“H-how many of these does he have?”

  
“A lot, bye bye.” Anna left at that, turning on her heel and saying not another word, and Sam turned to look at Crowley.

 

“Good morning.” Crowley greeted, and regarded Sam for a moment. “Are you ready to be taught?”

 

“Taught?” Sam repeated, and Crowley gestured to the documents in front of him.

 

“Taught.” He confirmed. Sam nodded, and Crowley gave a half-smile as Sam moved to sit down next to him.

 

Sam wasn’t certain if Crowley usually taught the new recruits firsthand, and in fact, sincerely doubted it, but he wasn’t about to complain. Crowley was clear and detailed as he explained each document’s purpose and format, and paid careful attention to Sam’s handwriting as he demonstrated his ability with a pen.

 

There was a written code Sam was expected to learn, as well as formats for log books, as well as the geography of all Crowley’s speakeasies. He was meant to take on an understanding of Crowley’s territory, an understanding, roughly, of the older man’s employees and the hierarchy of the mob, and was all in all, expected to work extremely hard once he had all knowledge necessary.

 

“And I don’t like your suit.” Crowley said, wrinkling his nose. “

 

“Sorry, sir.” Crowley raised his eyebrows at him.

 

“Didn’t I tell you not to call me sir?” Sam’s eyes widened, and he flustered.

 

“Shit, sorry! I meant, er, um, Crowley.” The older man snorted, setting the papers in front of them aside to be put away.

 

“It’s eleven o’clock. We will go to lunch at twelve.” Crowley said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers together, regarding Sam with an expectant expression. “What do you suggest we do until then?” Sam shifted in his own chair, leaning back to mimic Crowley’s movement.

 

“I, uh, I don’t know?” Sam said, but the words came out as more of a question, and Crowley raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know.” Sam said again, this time as more of a statement.

 

“Would you like a drink?”

 

“I don’t drink.”

 

“Oh, don’t you? Too scared of Daddy?” Sam twisted his mouth.

 

“I don’t like the taste, and it’s- it’s dangerous, people die-”

 

“Not in my establishments. There is an element of quality control, Sam.”

 

“Sorry.” He mumbled.

 

“And some of it tastes good. For instance…” Crowley stood, producing a bottle from the shelf. “Craig. From my native Scotland, it is delicious and beautifully alcoholic.”

 

“You’re Scottish?”

 

“I am.” Crowley set the bottle aside again before shifting forwards, grabbing Sam by the tie and pulling him close. Sam was shocked to his feet and put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder to steady himself and keep from falling. “If you’re not going to drink, we could always have a different kind of fun. How far’ve you ever gone with a girl, Sam?”

 

Sam took in a little gasp of breath, and then mumbled, “Uh, just, petting, mostly.”

 

“Never gone all the way?”

 

“N-No.” Sam mumbled softly, keeping Crowley’s eyes despite his flustered state.

 

“Would you like me to touch you?” Crowley asked, and he seemed deliberate as he spoke, and he glanced to Sam’s lips, licking his own. “Don’t lie. If you don’t, say so.”

 

“I do, yeah.” Sam mumbled.

 

“How far?”

  
“What?”

 

“How far do you want me to go?” Crowley asked, and Sam’s eyes quickly moved over the boss’ face, unsure what to say.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“If you want me to stop, at any time, you will tell me.” The words came out as an order, and Sam nodded.

 

“Y-yeah.”

 

“Good. Take off your shirt: I want to see you.” Sam swallowed, and then he moved to obey. Crowley watched him carefully as Sam undid his tie and unbuttoned the shirt before sliding it off his shoulders, revealing the thick muscles underneath, and the tattoo on his chest. Crowley furrowed his brow, taking a few steps forwards to examine the ink, and then he reached up to gently touch the black on Sam’s skin.

 

“What on Earth is this?” He asked, but he sounded somewhat delighted as he spoke.

 

“M-Me and Dean got tattoos last year, together.” Sam said in a quiet voice.

 

“Daddy doesn’t know?”

 

“No.” Sam mumbled. “He doesn’t like tattoos.”

 

“What else doesn’t he like?” Sam scoffed.

 

“You, Lucifer, Michael, women, alcohol, queers, cars, cats…” Sam went quiet, trailing off and not speaking anymore. Crowley’s lip twitched into a momentary snarl, but Sam made an effort not to comment on it. He wasn’t sure what Crowley’s motivations were in caring about Sam’s father, but for now he elected to just leave it be. He chose to see how far it went. “And me, a bit.” Crowley stared at Sam for a few moments, expression stony.

 

“I’m sure he does.” Crowley said finally. “Undo your trousers and sit in that chair.” He ordered, indicating the armchair in the corner of the room. Sam did so, settling back into the thick cushioning of it and undoing his belt and his trousers, and Crowley moved forwards.

 

“Do you want me to touch you?” Sam asked in a small voice, and Crowley shook his head in minute movements. Then, he dropped to his knees in front of Sam, and Sam thought his heart was going to drop from his chest and into his stomach. God. Sam’s thoughts revolved rapidly around nonsensical things, about how Crowley would scuff the expensive fabric on the knees of his trousers, how he was so below Sam, already a good deal shorter and yet now putting himself on his knees before him, and God, dear God, Crowley was dipping to put his mouth on Sam’s cock.

 

Sam let out a choked noise as Crowley licked a stripe up the shaft of it, the sensation foreign and new and yet completely intoxicating, and Sam wriggled, giving quiet little mewls as Crowley shifted his head forwards and sucked the head of Sam’s cock into his mouth. There was stigma attached to this, God, and Sam had never felt so sheerly powerful and yet powerless as he did in this moment, giving whimpered little noises as a fucking mob boss sucked on his dick.

 

Sam didn’t know where to put his hands, tried to grab at the arms of the winged chair he was in and then deliberated over touching Crowley’s shoulders but God, God, God, he wanted to ask permission to do that, and he didn’t want to crease the shoulders of that gorgeous tailored suit.

 

Sam came quickly, not having practised before, and while he took care of himself now and again when he had a little morning wood, this was a completely different occasion to that of his own hand. Crowley made no comment, drawing back and wiping a small bead of white , clinging to his lip, away with his thumb, and after glancing at Sam and making sure he was watching, he sucked it from the tip of his thumb.

 

Sam felt faint.

 

Crowley got up on his feet and settled at the desk again, picking up the phone and ordering a meal for them to share be brought up, and then he hung the phone down. “Put your cock away, Sam, you’ll scar the delivery boy for life.” Crowley said lightly, and even though his tone was teasing Sam was quick to obey.

 

“Come here, and memorize this code. You have one hour after lunch is finished - and yes, you get this time too, and then I’m testing you.” Crowley turned deliberately to fix Sam with a clean-cut grin. “For every sentence I put up on that board and you can translate properly, you get something. Five sentences. Five somethings.” The boss leaned in to murmur in Sam’s ear, his breath hot against the shell of it, and Sam felt like it was something confidential, important, before Crowley murmured, “And the fifth something is my cock, Sam, so you’d better try hard.”

 

Sam swallowed hard, and then gave a desperate little nod as he took the book from his boss and began rapidly taking in the numbers and letters inscribed on the page.

 

It turned out the other four somethings were quite enjoyable as well. Sam managed to get every sentence right, bar a small error in the last sentence, and Crowley was nothing short of ecstatic when Sam translated every sentence right - barring a small mistranslation of “women” and “woman” that Crowley forgave readily, given that he’d effectively memorized the rest in a few hours.

 

The first something was a kiss, but not a short one - Crowley straddled Sam in the armchair, apparently uncaring of his undignified position in Sam’s too-big lap and pressed his mouth to Sam’s, tangling his hands in the younger man’s hair and nipping at his lips, and dear God, Sam had never considered how great Crowley could be at kissing.

 

The second and third were attention on Sam’s nipples, and that was something else Sam hadn’t realized before how Goddamn sensitive the little buds were, because Crowley had left him with his cock hard and leaking, close to begging while Crowley showed him the fourth sentence. Number four’s reward had Crowley on his knees again, but this time he was pressing slick fingers against Sam’s entrance, and shit, shit, Sam had never really considered what this would actually feel like, and despite the slight discomfort and the strange feeling to it, there was something intoxicating there, something he wanted more of - and that was before Crowley crooked his fingers and Sam saw fucking stars.

 

Crowley pulled Sam out of the chair for the fifth something, and for the first time Sam saw something like desperation in the boss’ form, the way his hands trembled on his belt and fly, and then he pulled Sam forwards by the hips and Sam carefully settled himself with his knees either side of Crowley’s thighs.

 

He had no idea how the smaller man had done it so easily a few minutes before, because crap, this was actually a pretty awkward position and Sam’s legs were kind of long, and he kept thinking he was going to fall out of the chair or worse, break the frame of it with his weight wrongly distributed.

 

He was slow in lowering himself onto Crowley’s cock, giving choked little sounds as he felt himself stretch to accommodate the other man, and he grabbed at Crowley’s shoulders and tightened his hands on the fabric of his suit, head dropping back. Crowley was watching him with a little smirk, and when Sam clenched, just to feel how thick the boss was inside him, it drew a short grunt out of Crowley.

 

“Fuck yourself, then.” Crowley murmured, and Sam did, raising himself up on his knees before dropping down again with a low, whining hiss of sound.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” He whimpered under his breath, eyes tightly closed, and Crowley chuckled.

 

“That’s it, work up a rhythm.” Sam sped his pace just a little, feeling the burn of muscle in his thighs at the effort, and Crowley grinned at him. “That’s it, moose, faster.” Sam couldn’t come from the fucking, despite enjoying it, and Crowley worked his hand over Sam’s cock to bring him to orgasm.

 

After, Crowley left Sam to sprawl, naked, in the chair, breathing heavily and shot full of good. “You going to have a nap?” Crowley did his trousers back up and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his front pocket, taking one from the box with his lips and then smoothly lighting it with a quick motion of a match.

 

“Nah.” Sam mumbled. “Just need a few moments to catch my breath.”

 

“Fag?” Sam blinked at him. “Cigarette. Do you want one?” Crowley raised his eyebrows at the boy, looking interested as to how he would respond.

 

“Oh. No, no thanks.”

 

“We’re going downstairs in a few minutes, in that case. Put your clothes on.” Crowley took a moment to fix the clothes Sam had thrown haphazardly over the back of Crowley’s armchair with a curled lip and an obvious glare. “Hmph. We’ll invest in some proper clothes for you as well.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“I have a tailor in mind.” Crowley said, taking a drag from the cigarette. “Now, chop chop.” Sam stood and pulled his clothes back on. He followed Crowley down into the bar. Crowley set Sam at the bar, ordering a drink from the man behind it. He was a blond man, grinning widely and with a Brit’s accent, though it wasn’t much like Crowley’s.

 

“And is this the charming little creature you’ve gotten hold of?”

 

“Oh, hush, Balthazar.” Crowley’s tone wasn’t serious or angry, and Sam looked between the two men with interest. Balthazar just laughed, shifting away and grabbing Sam a near-beer before pouring a glass of amber liquid for the boss.

 

“How do you know I like these?” Sam asked, and Crowley and Balthazar both laughed at him.

 

“We deal in information, you silly boy.” Balthazar purred, amused. “And I am a good bartender who knows his customers.”

 

“Where’s Charlie?” Crowley asked, and Balthazar rolled his eyes.

 

“Off with Anna. Or Meg. Or that pretty girl in the bakery.” He threw his hands in the air. “In the arms or buried in the flesh of some woman, I’m sure. Her shift doesn’t start for forty minutes, mind, so she’ll be about soon.”

 

“Tell her to make me an appointment at the tailor’s tomorrow morning.” Balthazar nodded agreeably.

 

“Will do.” The door swung open and bashed against the wall, and Sam turned to look. Sam watched the man as he entered the room, his gait casual despite how straight he walked, shoulders squared, thumbs looped in his pockets. He looked at Sam, and something about the man's gaze went right through him, and Sam's knees quaked as he noted the red drop on his lip, and spattered across his blue tie.

 

“Alastair.” Crowley purred in greeting. “How did our little meeting go?”

 

“Our old friend Dick needed a little… Convincing.” Alastair’s voice was low, and something about it set Sam on edge, making him shift fractionally closer to Crowley - Sam didn’t notice the motion himself, but Balthazar, Alastair and Crowley all noted the instinctive reaction. “I always like convincing.”

 

“Dick Roman?” Sam asked, and Alastair nodded, before giving Sam a mock bow.

 

“The new toy speaks.”

 

“Not your toy, Alastair.” Crowley sparked up immediately, and Alastair gave a pout, the expression as petulant as one could be on a man his age. “And yes, Dick Roman. He’s our man.” Sam blinked at Crowley.

 

“That’s funny.” Sam said, and the three men around him regarded him with slightly perplexed, expectant expressions. “My dad votes for him.” Crowley snorted, and Balthazar broke into guffaws as he slapped Sam on the back.

 

“That is funny.” Alastair said, though he didn’t laugh, instead watching Sam intently. “Does your brother?” Sam’s lip twitched.

 

“He votes for Whitman, though he’d never tell my dad.” Alastair’s eyes flicked to meet Crowley’s.

 

“Can I have that one?”

 

“If he comes to you, sure.” Crowley said, and Alastair gave a huff of sound.

 

“All work, no play.” He lamented, moving out of the room and up the stairs and to one of the offices higher in the building.

 

“He’s the torturer, isn’t he?” Sam asked, and Crowley inclined his head.

 

"Indeed he is." Crowley agreed, and Sam swallowed, thinking of the bulletin board in the precinct, black and white photos of bodies and blood, sketches of crime scenes and maps, samples of hair and bloodied clothing.

 

"What did he do to Roman?" Sam asked, and despite the sick feeling in his stomach, he felt an odd, strange fascination with the idea - Roman was a smarmy guy, and despite his clever politics Sam had never liked him.

 

"Nothing visible." Balthazar said darkly, and then he moved back and away from the bar, into a backroom to fix the inventory.

 

"He's thorough, Sam, and that's all you need to know." Sam went quiet, and as different customers came in, Crowley spoke to them, discussing business. Sam listened intently, interested at the different topics of conversation as Crowley spoke to different people.

 

Sam went home at around seven o'clock. He was just in time for dinner, and Dean fixed him with a look. “Overtime your first day on the job, huh?”

 

“I’m learning the ropes.” Sam said evasively, and Dean shrugged, setting about plating up dinner. Dad watched Sam for a moment as he came into the room, then settled at the table.

 

“How’s the job?” Dad asked, and Sam heard in his voice the effort to sound at least half-enthusiastic.

 

“Good.” Sam said, as brightly as he could. “I’m really enjoying it, though I’m still getting the hang of it.” The senior Winchester nodded, but said nothing more. Sam retired to his room earlier that evening, dropping into bed and pressing his head to the pillow, near burrowing under the sheets and enjoy the warmth.

 

He didn’t drop off to sleep immediately. He shifted onto his back shifting his position to get more comfortable, settling his hand on his naked chest before slowly drawing it down , over his stomach and down further to grasp at his cock. Sam closed his thighs, making not a sound as he bit at his lip and thought about Crowley, Crowley, pressing his lips to Sam’s before shoving him over his knee, thinking about being over Crowley’s knee, about feeling Crowley’s hand smack hard against his ass.

 

God, Sam wanted to push. Wanted to push and get Crowley to punish him, bend him over the desk or pull him over his own knee and spank his ass red and tingling and burning, and God, God, Sam wanted it, needed it. He tightened his grasp a little on his cock, speeding the movement of his hand, thumbing over the head of his cock.

 

Sam came, and when he did, he sat up and wiped the evidence away with a white tissue, throwing it into a bin at the side of the bed before relaxing further and sprawling out, taking in a soft, quiet little breath. He was so definitely ready for work tomorrow.

 

He ate breakfast with his dad and his brother the next day, and he walked a little way from the house to meet Anna, who walked briskly with him. Sam made no attempt at conversation with her. Anna seemed irritable, and Sam knew not to bug her. She dropped Sam off at the same speakeasy she had yesterday, and walked away immediately, not stopping to lead him inside.

 

Sam shook his head before moving inside, greeting Balthazar as he moved past towards the back of the room, and then moved to start up the stairs. He bumped into Alastair on the way, and the older man fixed Sam with a look, raising his eyebrows. Sam’s mouth was dry as he thought of the blood that had been spattered on Alastair’s tie yesterday, but now it was clean, clean and white, and Sam couldn’t help but consider if that would change as the day went on.

 

“You’re too tall, kid.” Alastair said, and Sam’s lip twitched. Alastair’s tone couldn’t be anything other than sinister, Sam was fairly certain, but all the same Alastair’s words weren’t threatening.

 

“I’ll try and shrink for you.” Alastair gave an amused huff of sound.

 

“Your sugar daddy is in his office.” was all the man said, and then he continued to make his way down the stairs. Sugar daddy, Sam mouthed the repetition silently as he continued up the stairs, taken aback.

 

Crowley raised his eyebrows at Sam’s perplexed expression as he entered the room.

 

“He said you were my sugar daddy.” Sam muttered, shrugging slightly.

 

“Oh, did he now? Well, not strictly true. I’ve yet to lavish money and jewelry on you.” Sam snorted, unbuttoning his jacket. “Ah! Keep it on.” Sam stopped, but then buttoned it back up, looking at Crowley with some interest. “We’ve an appointment at the tailor’s.”

 

“Oh, right.” Sam mumbled, giving a small nod. Crowley stood, grasping his hat from the side and dropping it onto his head before putting a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it.

 

“Off we go.”

 

Moving from Crowley’s speakeasy where the bar was smoky and crowded with people to the open air was refreshing, and Sam followed after the mob boss as quickly as he could. Despite Sam’s longer legs, Crowley’s gait was speedy, and Sam had to make an effort to keep up.

 

The bell chimed as Crowley pushed the door to the tailor’s open, removing his hat and blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth, keeping the grip on his cigarette with tightly pursed lips on the other side. “After you.” He said lightly, holding out a hand as indication for Sam to go, and Sam moved inside. The tailor front didn’t seem anything special, and he looked around for assistance before looking to the second bell on the desk.

 

The bell at the door tinkled again, and Sam jolted as Anna stepped inside. She’d put on lipstick, the bright red standing out compared to the pale her lips had been a few hours earlier, but it was smudged slightly. “You’ve been necking with that girl of Lucifer’s again, Ruby is-” Crowley started, but Anna held up a hand for him to stop.

 

“We don’t talk shop, boss, leave it out.” Crowley curled his lip, but he made no further comment as Anna turned to keep an eye on the door. Sam wasn’t sure what it was that made her such an invaluable bodyguard in Crowley’s eyes - while she was on the force, she didn’t seem all that much of a physical threat, and he saw no gun on her.

 

Crowley moved forwards and slammed his hand down on the bell, the ring of it resounding in the small, wood-panelled room. “Coming!” The voice was a young man’s, and Sam blinked at the dark haired tailor who came from the backroom. He stopped short when he saw Crowley, who beamed at the smaller man, but before Crowley could say a word the tailor yelled, “Mom! It’s the Scot!” Crowley made an expression of mock offence, but the boy’s remained stony.

 

The woman who followed out raised her eyebrows at Crowley, looking from him to Sam. “Kevin, go set up. We want a good suit, best quality, tie and all. Be ready to take measurements for shoes as well.” Kevin went from the room obediently, and the woman stepped out from behind the counter to take a closer look at Sam.

 

“Hallo, Linda.” Crowley purred.

 

“You’re paying me a lot for this.”

 

“Always, my dear, always.”

 

“You guys are friends?” Sam asked skeptically, and Crowley nodded as Linda shook her head.

 

“Sam, meet Linda Tran. The skittish creature in the back is her son, Kevin.”

 

“Mrs Tran.” Sam greeted softly with a quiet nod.

 

“He’s respectful, at least.” Linda murmured under her breath, looking at Sam up and down. “I can work with this. Are you ready to be fitted, kid?”

 

“Yes, Ma’am.” Linda nodded, and then indicated for him and for Crowley to follow her into the other room, where Kevin had laid out a measuring tape on the side. Linda moved forwards, beginning to use the measure and read out numbers to Kevin, who noted them down.

 

Sam looked at himself in the mirror as she worked, glancing to Crowley in the background of his reflection. Crowley was watching intently, lips pursed as he concentrated. He met Sam’s eyes in the reflection in the mirror, and Sam offered his new boss a tiny smile. It wasn’t forced, but it was nervous all the same, and Crowley’s lip quirked.

 

“How long will the suits take, Linda?”

 

“Two days, tops.” Sam swallowed as he considered what this meant. It was just a few suits, right? Sugar daddy. That’s what Alastair had called Crowley earlier, had said he was Sam’s sugar daddy but dear God, it was worse than that, so much worse than that. He’d said at the beginning he didn’t want to kill anyone, but could he kill anyone? Would he, if Crowley asked?

 

Shit, shit, he’d just joined the fucking mob. That was what this meant, getting a suit and getting all the other employees to be friendly with him and lying to his dad and to Dean about what he was doing for a living, and shit, shit, he might have to kill someone.

 

Sam thought about the way Crowley had fucked him last night, how good he’d felt, how much he’d needed that attention, how much he wanted more. Sam bit at his lip, worrying the skin as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. Was he capable of murder? Wasn’t he allowing people to die, to be hurt, just by being part of the whole thing?

 

Linda snapped the tape measure away, and Sam jolted in surprise. “You alright, Sam?”

 

“Yes, Ma’am.” Sam said in a little voice, and Linda looked at him with some concern, sharing a glance with her son. “Just feeling a bit peaky.” She and Kevin both nodded, and Kevin left the room with the notebook in his hand, ready to get working.

 

Crowley handed Linda a few dozen banknotes, and Sam swallowed, considering where that money had come from, and then something in him steeled. He’d seen his dad with piles of banknotes before, from the police fund, from their home safe, from all sorts of places - and yet his dad had never gotten jackshit done. Sam knew that some of that money went into real things, real important things, but most of it didn’t.

 

“You feeling alright, kid?” Crowley asked as Anna stepped aside, allowing them to step into the street.

 

“I’m fine.” Sam decided after a moment of pause, lips pressing together, his back straightening. “I feel great, actually. Thank you for the suit.” And Sam paused, and he thought about how Crowley had told him not to call him sir, about how Crowley insisted none of his important employees called him sir and how only his lackeys did. “Sir.” He added, and Crowley and Anna both raised their eyebrows at him.

 

“What did I tell you about calling me-”

 

“I want to call you sir. Better ring to it than Daddy.” Sam interrupted his boss, and his blood ran cold as he considered the potential risk of doing so, but Crowley laughed - laughed.

 

“Sir’s a good deal preferable to Daddy.” Crowley purred, and he stepped closer. Once they were inside the speakeasy, Crowley reached up and grabbed at Sam’s hair, pulling him down and into a quick kiss, biting and nipping at his lips until Sam was breathing heavily, eyes wide as Crowley let him go.

 

“Get upstairs and bend yourself over my desk.” Crowley murmured in his ear, and Sam took in a slow breath before nodding obediently.

 

“Yes, sir.” Crowley was grinning as he watched Sam move away.

 

\---

 

The trousers were the perfect length, the shirt was simultaneously snugly fitting and loose enough to be comfortable, and Sam had never felt so right in a suit before. He put the tie around his neck and tied it in a neat knot, tightening it up to his neck before fastening the tie pin Crowley had given him into place.

 

The waistcoat next, and Sam fiddled the with the fastenings on his cuffs before he buttoned it up, and then it was the jacket. Sam swallowed as he examined his reflection in the mirror. The shoes fit him perfectly, it all did. Sam hadn’t asked how much the suits had cost, but he didn’t think he needed to, now - the quality spoke enough that Sam knew he would probably feel embarrassed to know how much Crowley had spent.

 

Crowley met his reflection in the mirror again, and Sam gave a small nod. The boss took a few steps forwards, laying his hand possessively on Sam’s lower back as he looked at the both of them in the mirror. “I think that suits you quite perfectly. Did I tell you the Trans were artists of their trade?”

 

Sam chuckled a little, despite remaining a little nervous. “You didn’t, but I’ve noticed.”

 

“Are you quite sure about all this, Sam?” Crowley asked, and Sam knew in an instant he didn’t mean the suit.

 

“Never been surer of anything in my life.” Crowley grinned, and the expression was predatory, possessive, excited, all of those things at once. Sam grinned, and he noted the similarities between his expression and Crowley’s, but shoved them to the back of his mind for the time being.

 

“What a pretty, perfect little corruption this has been.” Crowley purred, and Sam nodded. “Now, come, moose, we’ve a bill to pay.” Crowley moved away, and for a moment, Sam stared at himself in the mirror. He grinned at his reflection, and winked at himself before he turned on his heel.

  
Perfect corruption was definitely right in Sam’s book.


End file.
